By Proxy
by ruth baulding
Summary: Jedi Knight Feld Spruu has an unusual request to make of his friend. Set in the AU Lineage/Legacy series.
1. Chapter 1

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 1**

* * *

Feld Spruu is the sort of fellow whose notion of "surreptitious approach" would put a herd of stampeding banthas to shame; his presence therefore is easily discerned in the Force a full two minutes before he actually descends upon his intended victim – and when he raises a tendon-knotted hand to rap at the door panel, the portal is already sliding open before him on silent pressure pistons.

"Obi-Nobi!" he hollers, amiable and boisterous as ever. His rich baritone rolls pleasantly off the brightly illumined walls and ceiling. "You son of a slothful gundark! I come to beg a boon and you don't even have the decency to greet me in person."

The door hisses shut behind him as he crosses the threshold, extravagant lekku draped with a rakish elegance over both broad shoulders.

"I'll give you a _personal welcome_." No sooner is the promise made than it is fulfilled: his host appears in acute dishabille upon the threshold of an interior doorway, a dim meditation lamp in the room beyond faintly limning tousled bedclothes upon an ascetical palette, a pair of discarded field boots tucked in a corner, and a pile of rumpled cloth that might be discarded garments – were this not inconsistent with their presumptive owner's ingrained tidiness.

The Twi'Lek knight nearly laughs aloud, brushing off the threat with a knowing wag of his finger, and sallies into the miniscule kitchen nook to avail himself of his comrade's tea stash.

"Don't touch Qui-Gon's proprietary blend or he'll have your sorry blue hide." Having thus fairly warned the trespasser of the perils inherent in his present undertaking, Obi-Wan emerges into the sun drenched common room and folds himself onto a floor cushion. As an afterthought, and a courtesy to his blearily smarting eyes, he waves the blinds upon the balcony doors to a forty-five degree angle, shafting late morning radiance upward to the pale ceiling. "…And I'll have honey and milk in mine."

Feld has indeed come seeking a favor, so he accedes to this haughtily issued request quite demurely, kneeling to proffer the steaming bowl to his friend.

"Bribed with my own resources," Obi-Wan snorts, nevertheless taking a long and grateful draught of the aromatic brew.

Feld joins him upon the opposite cushion. "Speaking of resources, I'm glad to see you back in Temple. How was the stint as bodyguards to the Senate Funds Appropriation Committee?"

The younger Knight lifts his brows expressively over the rim of his bowl as he drains it. "I have been forbidden to express my personal opinion on the assignment for another twelve and a half days."

Feld guffaws, then leans forward conspiratorially. "I think you are forgetting that Master Jinn no longer quite holds the reins, my friend."

"I still have to _live_ with the man."

Feld chuckles, then leaps boldly into the fray. There is no time like the present, nor is there any other time at all, metaphysically speaking. He might as well plunge straight to the point. "Listen, Obi-Nobi, the Council has slapped me with a courier mission overnight to X'thu – but the blasted wormhole's got an epidemic going on. I can't take Zhoa there – it's too short a notice for the healers to do an immunization."

"So leave her with the initiates for a day," Obi-Wan supplies. "Perhaps _you_ need to let go the reins a bit?"

But Feld has not finished yet. "No no no… that's not the problem. She's …ah…."

"Yes?"

"Well, look: she's a girl, yes? So there are certain things in her mind I do not understand… among them this: she does not do so well in the initiate clans anymore. There has been some _weeping _ about it lately."

That is interesting but not difficult to diagnose. "Well, she likely just needs to settle some unresolved issue with one or two other younglings." Obi-Wan can remember several cathartic and highly productive tussles from his own childhood days. Most seemingly insoluble dilemmas can be solved either by means of sweet-talk or aggressive negotiations. A Jedi must excel in both, and so why deprive the Temple's youngest residents of the chance to hone such vital skills?

But Feld shakes his head. "She is a _girl,_ I tell you." He casts his eyes downward, mournful. "Nothing is easy as it seems with her."

Now his friend gestures helplessly with one hand."Why are you seeking my counsel? Try Bant."

"I don't want your advice," Feld blurts. "I just need you to watch her for the day while I am gone, eh? She finishes lessons mid-afternoon. "

"You want me to _babysit_ your padawan while you are absent."

Stated so dryly it sounds like a ridiculous request, one unbecoming a Jedi's dignity. Obi-Wan has this capacity, to make things assume the hue and complexion he casts upon them with his words. It is an impressive talent to bring to a negotiating table, but one which sometimes causes friction in the realm of personal loyalties. Feld, however, is too wise to pay much heed to the sarcastic gripe. "You're perfect."

"I'm not available."

"What? You're on furlough- what's so pressing on your agenda?"

"I was _planning_ to sleep for two days straight, if you must know."

"Well, now you are planning to succor the younger generation. Think of it as practice." The Twi'Lek Jedi claps his comrade on the shoulder and rises, content to interpret stunned silence as a pledge of help. "I knew I could count on you. I'd better make haste – my shuttle departs in one standard hour."


	2. Chapter 2

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 2**

Having spent the intervening hours assiduously tending to the foremost item on his personal agenda, Obi-Wan wakes again at fifteenth hour in a more peaceable frame of mind. A Jedi rises to the occasion, even if the occasion is four foot six and half his weight. Duty is duty, odious or not. Thus fortified body and spirit, he sets about girding himself for proverbial battle. A quarter hour later, bathed, cleanly shaven, dressed in newly laundered tunics, polished boots and mended cloak, with his now luxuriant mane tied neatly back in a thick tail and his saber hilt clipped jauntily at one hip, he is armored in the civilized – that is to say, understated – splendor of the Jedi tradition which he strives to embody. Hopefully this will prove imposing enough to bluff his way through the crisis ahead.

In truth, he has _no idea_ what to do with a nearly-eleven year old girl padawan who might, possibly, cry. In his presence. When he is expected to play the role of counselor and guide. When he was eleven years old, he only cried in the aftermath of violent nightmare. And he always had the common decency to do it in private. When Bant was eleven years old, she would sometimes cry _in public_. Then she would hug him, and he would permit this small indignity to be inflicted upon his person because Bant was… Bant. When Siri was eleven years old she never cried. Once when she had taken a particularly hard hit to the solar plexus in the dojo he had seen tears glistening in her glacial blue eyes, but upon issuing a solicitous – and only slightly condescending- inquiry upon the subject, he had been rewarded for his chivalric impulse with a solid punch in the stomach, one sufficient to reduce him to a similar condition. This, of course, means that certain kinds of tears do not count.

He is not disturbed by Zhoa's tender years, nor her girl-ness, nor Feld's somewhat flattering bequeathal of the magisterial role to himself. No. He is only… concerned… about the reckless admixture of these disparate elements. This is a truth applicable to life in general. Exempli gratia: compressed liquid tibanna, oxygen, and heat are all salutary and harmless things in and of themselves. But one should never, ever combine them outside the ignition chamber of a sublight thruster array. Or, in another vein: one may think impertinent thoughts about Master Yoda. One may speak one's thoughts aloud. One may speak frankly to Master Yoda. These are all innocuous when considered in abstraction, as singular events. But it would be _most_ problematic were they all to occur in the same room at the same time.

His agile wit can readily formulate other, darker, variations on the theme, but before he can indulge his perverse sense of humor any further, he realizes he has already wended his way through the Temple's labyrinthine passageways, and come early to his destination. Most the classrooms in this corridor are familiar to him. He too, was raised and educated here, and little has changed. The older initiate classes will be dismissed soon enough, and the hushed hall filled with pattering feet and subdued but eager chatter. One does not so much as _dream_ of running or shouting in the concourse; infractions of the unspoken rule are dealt with most severely, for a Jedi's life is built from infancy upward on a solid foundation of _discipline _ and mindfulness.

Which thought ironically provokes the realization that he hasn't any notion _which_ classroom his temporary ward is to be found within.

"Blast it."

Of course, he could simply wait in ambush outside the main arcade. He strides down the corridor and rounds the corner, only to encounter an arrestingly melancholy spectacle. Zhoa Pleromata is already here, crouched miserably upon the stone bench beneath the massive arched window. Her stubby green headtails droop like the fronds of a yarbanna tree; her slender arms are wrapped about her knees, her Force signature is awash with mortification and sorrow.

Stars' end… is she at it _already?_

He sits beside her, cloak pooling softly upon the marble floor. "Zhoa."

The tiny Nautonlan's head pops up, silpa bead braid swinging wildly as she slews round, fixing him with wide, opalescent eyes. "Oh! Master Obi-Wan!" Panic lends her voice a hysterical undertone.

"Well, I've had warmer welcomes, but I'll take what I can get."

The jest produces a small hiccup. Zhoa sidles nearer. "I've been waiting here a long time."

His brows contract. "You were dismissed early? Why didn't you comm me? Your master said-"

She hangs her head, small mouth curving down ward in shame. "No," she peeps, addressing the floor. "I- I was expelled from class for unbecoming behavior."

This is as boggling to the imagination as someone accusing Qui-Gon of stodgy conformism or suggesting that Quinlan Vos is a paragon of tact and subtlety. He blinks in outright surprise.

"I shouted at Zu-Li," Feld's ridiculously young apprentice confesses, in a breathless rush. "for no reason at all and she was my friend in Bear clan and she does not deserve such anger and now I've dishonored my teacher and myself and I was sent away and , and – oh I'm sorry, Master, truly I am, I'm sorry –"

He stems the flood of contrition with a small pat on her knee. "You would not be the first padawan to be chastised for telling an irksome contemporary that he was an illiterate nerfherder."

Zhoa's enormous black pearl eyes contract in the Nautolan equivalent of a bemused frown. "That's not what I called her."

"Never mind. Do you think this bench can bear to part with your company?" He gestures toward the nearest lift. "You can offer Zu-Li a proper apology later. In the meantime, I've promised your master not to let you mope about too much… and you're making me look incompetent."

Zhoa trots to keep pace with him, spirits lifting momentarily only to plummet into trepidation. "Are you… are you going to punish me, Master?"

He catches himself before he stumbles. This is a knotty diplomatic impasse. Is he _expected_ to impose some fitting penalty for malfeasance? And what in stars' name would that be? His mind flits backward in time to the innumerable and diabolically cruel penances assigned to _him_ for the innumerable and diabolically impertinent transgressions of his rash youth – and then recoils in horror. One glance at Zhoa's delicate frame and sweetly mournful mien is enough to convince him that she would not have lasted _one day_ as Qui-Gon's padawan. And surely Feld does not….

Wait a moment.

"What would Master Spruu say in this situation?" Ha. The best answer is often found in a _question._

"I don't know," she laments. "I've never been in trouble before."

"Well," he replies, lightly. "I've never been a master before. So our ignorance is complementary and reciprocal – and therefore cancels to zero."

Zhoa nods very slowly, reverting – in the absence of real comprehension- to the universal Jedi standby. "Yes, Master."

He waves the lift doors open and shepherds her inside. He has negotiated his way through the first crisis, with moderate success, but he is not foolish enough to congratulate himself yet. After all, they have only just begun.


	3. Chapter 3

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 3**

It is a truth universally accepted that he who fights a battle on familiar terrain has the advantage; Obi-Wan therefore selects the Temple Archives as proscenium to the afternoon's labors. Buttressed on all sides by a millenium's accrued wisdom, he feels himself relax, the Force whisper reassuringly that his task- though daunting- is not beyond the skills of a Jedi Knight.

Zhoa's soft boots pit-pat in tempo with his own measured stride as they proceed down the watchful gauntlet of the Lost, bronzium busts standing sentinel along the main aisle. He takes a righthand turning beneath the vaulted roof's exact center and leads his young charge into a sequestered study alcove, a favorite haunt.

"Here: I've a mission report to compose, and you may work on your class assignments. I'll be ready to hand if you require help."

The Nautolan girl seems well-content with this arrangement. Too well content, he ruefully decides, as she slips into the empty chair _directly_ adjacent to his data terminal. At this proximity her swinging foot occasionally clips his shin beneath the desk, and her small sharp elbow more than once strays into his ribs as she contends bravely with a slew of mathematical problems.

_Better you than me, _ he inwardly smirks as he sets about his own burdensome work. It is a simple matter of discipline to filter out the scritch-tap-scratch-tap of his companion's stylus and to focus exclusively upon the manifold and ennui-engendering details of his official report. This task has of late been delegated to him rather than Qui-Gon; the Jedi master claims that he is growing too old for this sort of thing, and that his former protégé has a superior compositional style anyway. Obi-Wan's modesty will not permit him to openly agree with the latter assertion, while his honesty forbids him to concur with the former. Encroaching senectitude has yet to blunt the edge of Qui-Gon's vitality, as testified to by the bruises his young preferred sparring partner sustained during their last playful match. The victim of his master's "waning strength" therefore takes care to pepper his narrative with wry commentary and a few impish misrepresentations of fact. If he must perforce waste an entire afternoon in such fashion, then Qui-Gon can at least devote equal time and attention to proof-reading the draft and grimly expunging the less objective turns of phrase left there for his benefit.

Zhoa Pleromata clutches her head between two slender green hands. "I hate non-standard conversion problems," she moans. "Why can't we have a droid do the calculations for us?"

The youngling displays a pragmatic wisdom far in advance of her years; Obi-Wan has a glimpse of the potential Feld must have discerned within her.

"Droids are more trouble than they are worth," he retorts, gladly abandoning his own half-completed project in favor of a more compassionate enterprise. "Perhaps we can work through a few of them together."

The girl beams and scoots her chair closer, if this is physically possible. "Yes, Master! Look at this one - I have to change Uz'kahhl metric _ astrokkli _ into standard parsecs. And there's not even a formula!"

Her tutor takes a deep centering breath and faces the foe squarely, wondering whether there is an algorithm governing the conversion of Feld's debt for this favor into a discrete number of thrashings in the Knights' dojo.

* * *

Some time later, substitute master and interim apprentice emerge relatively unscathed from their encounter with higher mathematics, abandoning their scholar's hermitage for the dusking concourse outside. Coruscant's northern hemisphere tilts away from the star at this season; the days are short, and twilit shadow spills across the windowed colonnade on the Temple's west-facing side.

Zhoa maintains a deferential position to Obi-Wan's left and one step behind, tiny hands tucked into opposite sleeves, beautiful dark-sheened eyes cast meekly downward. He slows his gait to accommodate his diminutive companion's and suppresses the urge to glance over his shoulder to be sure the quiet girl is still _there._

One or two senior Jedi favor the pair of them with nostalgic or gently amused smiles when they cross paths. Obi-Wan finds their indulgent regard slightly discomfiting and must remind himself that it is _Zhoa_ who inspires and merits the unspoken appellation _cute._ He raises mental shields and keeps his chin high, all the way to the refectory where Qui-Gon will join them for evening meal.

"Padawan Pleromata," the Jedi master greets the unexpected addition when she appears from behind a fold of Obi-Wan's cloak. He makes a graceful bow, one deep enough to thoroughly intimidate the poor lass.

"Don't worry, "Obi-Wan assures her. "Master Jinn is only half as bad as his reputation would suggest."

She stares, mouth agape.

"Sit, young one," the subject of this affectionate abuse commands, and she slides docilely into place at their selected table, where a simple repast is already laid out, banquet style.

"I took the liberty," Qui-Gon explains.

They eat, all three with hearty appetite. Zhoa's curiosity slowly unfurls from its defensive position and makes a tentative foray into unknown territory. "Is he still your padawan?" she asks Qui-Gon, pointing to her escort.

"Not technically, no."

This takes a moment to digest. "But …un-technically?"

The tall man's eyes crinkle at the corners, betraying inner mirth. "Untechnically," he gravely answers the earnest inquiry, "that boy still has much to learn." He pops a piece of bread in his mouth and chews, mustaches still quirking in amusement.

Obi-Wan manages a good-natured glower.

"Oh," Zhoa intones. "How long were you apprenticed for?" she decides to ask him.

He meets Qui-Gon's laughing eyes. "Oh, eight grueling years. I still bear the scars."

"I _never_ want to leave Master Spruu," she declares, with youthful zeal.

"Talk to me in ten years," Obi-Wan advises, dryly.

But Feld's apprentice merely shakes her head stubbornly and falls into a quiet introspection. They finish the meal in amicable silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 4**

It is en route to the initiate clan dorm where Zhoa will spend the night that things begin to unravel.

"I can't go there! Not after I spoke so harshly to Zu-Li today!"

They halt halfway down a wide stairwell, in the shadow of Master Seva's staue. His enormous bronzium hand holds a ball suspended in the Force. Though the artwork relies on a cleverly placed magneto repulsor to effect the illusion, it is a convincing one – by contrast to Obi-Wan's confident self-deception that he can _handle_ this mercuric youngling. "What?"

Zhoa cringes. "Her feelings are hurt. What do I say to her?"

"You say, _Zu Li I am truly sorry for my words, and I crave your pardon." _ This is what he would often say to his childhood friend Garen Muln after causing minor offense.

A nod. Small fingers pick at the hem of a white tunic. "I already said that."

"And what was her reply?"

"She said it was all right." As would Garen.

"Oh." He frowns, failing to comprehend the difficulty. By this point in the proceedings, he and Garen would be happily tussling in the playroom again, exchanging friendly blows and friendly insults without a care in the world. "I see." He does not, but he is stalling for time. "Well then." He leads the way on.

But his mournful satellite lags further and further behind until he is forced to call a halt again. "Zhoa?"

The child is trembling."I haven't slept there since Master Spruu took me as padawan," she explains.

"You should not be alone in quarters," he sternly replies. This is irrational, unbecoming a Jedi in training.

She glances up shyly at him, the question shimmering in glossily opaque eyes.

_Oh no, no ho ho._ It is Qui-Gon's habit to bring home strays; he has no intention of –

"Yes, Master," Zhoa murmurs, the words melting into abject puddles of misery.

_Blast it!_ He is not doing this.

Except he is. "Very well. You can spend the night in our quarters. " _What in the blazes is he thinking?_

Dejection does not precipitate into actual tears; he is spared this much. Tugging his cloak about his shoulders, he turns on his heel and sets off in the opposite direction, relieved padawan trotting at his heels.

* * *

Obi-Wan's misplaced compassion attracts amused notice the moment he crosses the threshold.

"What's this?" Qui-Gon inquires, brows lifting delicately at the appearance of Zhoa Pleromata, who seems to be towed along in the tractor beam of his friend's charisma.

"One of the natives," the younger man snips, blue eyes shooting daggers at his former mentor.

But this only enhances the irony. _Why do I have the feeling we've picked up another pathetic life form?_ the Jedi master projects clearly across their Force bond, throwing his former apprentice's habitual gripe back in his teeth.

Obi-Wan fumes from beneath lowered brows, and places two hands protectively on the Nautolan girl's shoulders. "I've offered her our hospitality for the night, Master."

The tall man notes both the _hint_ and the honorific, but acknowledges neither. The situation is simply too delicious; and besides, like the talented swordsman he is, he has perceived an opening and must needs land a strike. "There is a lunar eclipse tonight, Padawan, which I plan to observe from the balcony. I would not wish to disturb your repose with my late-hour activities… I am sure you will be very comfortable in Master Obi-Wan's quarters."

Zhoa, innocent as she is, nods graciously.

Obi-Wan, thus neatly evicted from his own room, promises retribution with a single fulminating glare.

"Make the poor girl some tea," Qui-Gon orders. He waits until his disgruntled companion has disappeared into the miniscule kitchen nook before adding, "…and no honey or milk in mine."

* * *

Zhoa is impressed with her temporary lodgings. "Your room is very tidy," she observes.

The morning's disorder has been cleared away, neatness restored. Obi-Wan confiscates a few holo-books left upon his desk, among them volumes 35 and 36 of _Rise and Fall of the Teth Dynasties,_ his preferred bedtime reading, and hesitates upon the threshold. The girl is sitting cross-legged in the center of his sleep couch, face tilted upward expectantly.

Is he supposed to impart some final words of blessing? Of counsel? He wracks memory for the appropriate sentiment, dredging up recollections of a time when he was in her position, and Qui-Gon in his – and then decides that "_goodnight, brat"_ will not quite… do.

"Sleep well," he says, instead. Then, "We will share meditation in the morning."

But his young guest still looks subtly dissatisfied. "Um," she mutters, one finger tracing circles on the white coverlet, "We usually sing before retiring at night."

"You sing," he repeats, dumbfounded for the second time in as many hours.

"Yes," Zhoa supplies, gathering confidence. "In Twi'Lek. I'm learning Twi'Lek, and my master is learning Nautolan. And I'm learning by memorizing folk songs. It's much better than the tutorial program in the Archives, I can't do that at all, but when I sing all the words come alive and I remember them later. That's what we do," she ends, lamely, interpreting his silence as disapproval.

This is not the case; he is merely stunned by the revelation of a _softer_ side to Feld Spruu, one deftly masked by other traits. A padawan is a perilous thing, he reflects, then hastens to console his friend's student. "I know some Twi'Lek songs myself," he admits.

The tiny girl beams, opal eyes gleaming in delight. "Teach me!"

Obi-Wan casts a glance over his shoulder and lets the door slide closed behind him. This is an _educational_ exercise, not a sideshow at some street carnival. He perches upon the mattress beside her and clears his throat.

It turns out that they know some of the same pieces, and that Zhoa has a lovely fluting treble voice, cherubic and pure. It is a well-balanced duet, and the private performance stretches into a half-hour and then more, ending only when the youngling's clear notes fade into yawns and then inchoate murmuring. She is asleep before he can suggest that they are done.

He waves a hand, kindling the night-lamp's gentle blue flame, and lets the door slide quietly closed.

"Lovely," Qui-Gon remarks, almost wistfully.

Obi-Wan used to sing for Tahl.

They retreat to the balcony, letting recollection flow _through_ them, into the Force's infinite sea, while Coruscant's frenetic sky-traffic weaves sinuous bands of color through the city's artificial canyons. There is only one moon, and it hangs by a sickly crescent on the far horizon.

"Master… that doesn't look to be a very promising eclipse. "

Qui-Gon shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. "I may have mistaken the date."

It is too late to move Zhoa now. Obi-Wan snorts, and returns to the common room, where he pointedly takes up residence upon the hard settee, balling up his cloak into an ascetical pillow. He selects Ruuibb Shu'akkar's _ Minor Tractates on the Phenomenology of Time_ from his small pile and slides a finger along the holobook's spine, opening the text-display.

The tall man paces sedately across their shared quarters, turning the lights down as he passes. A moment before the door to his private chamber hisses shut, a low chuckle textures the night-time hush.

"Goodnight, brat," he calls out.


	5. Chapter 5

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 5**

Obi-Wan has slept in caves, starships, prison cells, drainpipes. It is not the uncomfortable angles and lumps of the settee beneath his back that cause him to lie wakeful through the night; it is the intrusion of uninvited _thought- _ what Qui-Gon used to call unauthorized brooding.

Heretofore he has always considered Feld a distant senior, a charming companion and challenging sparring partner, but one whose experiences and duties lay, beyond their shared commitment to the purpose of every Jedi, outside the boundaries of his own. It now occurs to him with a rush of clarity that the years separating himself and Feld are but a handful in number, and that he and his Twi'Lek comrade hold identical rank within the Order. And this means that what has befallen Feld may also at any time descend upon his own head with all the finality of destiny. Indeed, it may be mandated by the Council.

_He_ really could be honor bound to take an apprentice of his own; it is part of the Precepts, a cornerstone of the tradition, something he _cannot_ escape if he is serious about his calling.

Stars' end… what would he ever do with, for example, his own ten year old or twelve year old self? Ancillary to this thought comes another: what would he ever have done without _Qui-Gon?_ Would he presently be hoeing a row on some forsaken backworld, as an Agricorps laborer? He snorts. More likely his brash temperament and barbed tongue would have got him killed by now.

A chilling thought. He rolls off the hellishly lumpy couch and settles on a meditation pad instead, lotus position. Breathe. Breathe. Surely not every youngling in the Temple is quite such a handful. He could choose prudently, with an eye to the future. Except… _teacher, student, the Force: these are one._ He cannot discount the guiding hand of Fate – and by now he has a fairly well defined sense of what the Force has in store for him.

Exhale, banish dread and morbid curiosity. It is absurd, perhaps, to be intimidated by the mere _prospect_ of taking on a padawan. But the Unifying Force fills all his inner horizons, blotting out present and past in the penumbra of its majesty. His personal history turns on a ponderous axis, carrying him inevitably toward a dawn full of dark portent and thunderous power.

He all but leaps up with a muffled curse. He hasn't had such a night of unwelcome premonition since _he_ was a padawan. Tea will ground him back in the concrete and the present moment. He abandons his attempt at meditation and sets about making it, needing no lamp to guide his hands in the familiar ritual. Pot, leaves, infuser, water, patience. These are the ingredients, just as the vital components of a Jedi's life are honor, knowledge, skill, patience.

He is running short on the latter commodity by the time the brew is ready. It slides down his throat and warms the places rendered cold by foresight. Breathe.

On impulse, he crosses the darkened apartment and opens the door to his own chamber, peering into its dimly illumined depths. The night-lamp burns with a pure, unsullied fire in its corner, just bright done enough to outline the tiny figure wrapped peacefully in his blanket, headtails splayed out upon the pillow, startling eyes closed in slumber, perfect delicate mouth slightly open. Zhoa is the picture of innocent tranquility; something beneath his ribs uncoils, loosening a constricted knot.

A padawan is just a _child,_ after all. His mouth twists wryly at his own anxiety. He still has much to learn.

He takes up position on the settee once again, and distracts himself with the _Teth Dynasties._ But he does not sleep.

* * *

At least, he does not remember falling asleep; but he must have done so at some point antecedent to dawn, for his is awakened not long thereafter by a small green finger poking him timidly in the chest.

"Master? Master Obi-Wan?"

He is instantly alert, and instantly aware of the crick in his neck, back, and left leg. The settee is no very luxuriant bed – he would surely have fared better on the floor. Sitting upright with a _crack _to rival that he has heard from Qui-Gon's knees of late, he runs a hand over his face and rolls aching shoulders.

"Merblatzu ch'oll," he mutters, sardonically – and then blushes a violent crimson, recalling too late that the child is quasi-fluent in Twi'Lek.

Mercifully, Feld's tutoring does not seem to extend to colloquialisms of this variety, for she merely blinks at him, unfazed.

"I made you tea because I know you like it," she declares, wide black eyes gleaming.

The tea is terrible, but he is careful to drink it slowly and with gratitude. He has had worse and been thankful; he has had infinitely better prepared with a fraction of such devotion. A Jedi must be mindful of the _inner_ meaning, not merely the coarse outer appearance. This is a lesson learned early, one he will neither forget nor fail to instill when the time comes.

"Are we going to meditate together?" Zhoa wishes to know, whisking away his bowl before he can polish off the dregs.

He raises his brows, noting that his young friend here is a _glory-of-the-Living-Force_ morning person. There are only two sorts of beings in the galaxy: early risers and their victims. He has been a stolid member of the latter category for so long that helpless acquiescence comes naturally. "Yes, all right."

They kneel opposite one another, while daybreak climbs over the city-planet's crenellated horizon. The exercise is short, much abbreviated due to the padawan's youth and fidgeting. Obi-Wan sighs, but issues no reprimand. When Qui-Gon started with him, he could barely sit for ten minutes at a stretch without _speaking,_ much less center himself in measureless tranquility for a half-hour or more. He is unaccustomed to such an abridged communion with the Force, but allowances have to be made.

And Zhoa requires no chivvying at all: she is dressed, fed, has her satchel of 'pads and holo-books slung over her arm, and is ready to depart before he has finished contemplating the interdependence of consciousness and time within the universal plenum.

"You _are_ going to walk me to class?" she asks, brightly.

He should _not_ indulge this request- but she has not yet cried, and he should like to consolidate his victory now, while he has the upper hand. They set off together, side by side, and it feels a bit more natural than it did yesterday afternoon – another mystery of time and perception he does not care to scrutinize too closely.


	6. Chapter 6

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 6**

By midday, premonitory dread has been dispelled by the mundane annoyance of finishing his mission report; Obi-Wan dispatches this loathsome task and forwards the draft to Qui-Gon, with a deferent and flawlessly courteous request that the senior Jedi review its contents and _"rectify any errors the humble author may, through the perennial and lamentable overenthusiasm of youth, have inadvertently included." _Even the imperturbable Jinn calm has its limits, and the man's former apprentice knows _precisely_ where they lay.

Then he goes to avail himself of some lunch, a renewed spring in his step.

Zhoa Pleromata is waiting for him, at a table apart from her peers. He frowns a little at this self-imposed exile, but he knows his duty to Feld. Fetching a tray from the droid servitors at the refectory's far end, he joins his young acquaintance at her chosen place.

"Master!" she chirps merrily when he slides in opposite her. Younglings across the way peer curiously at the pair of them.

"Don't you wish to see your friends?" he inquires, mildly enough.

Her cheerfulness scuds away on a cold wind. Slender fingers toy with a utensil, round opal eyes shifting away from his inquisitive gaze. She blinks a few times, rapidly, and he perceives that the question amounts to a diplomatic blunder.

Time to change the subject. "What lessons did you have this morning?"

She looks up, manifestly relieved. "History. And rhetoric." Ebony eyes widen in distress. "But I have astrocartography next, and I still don't understand the material for our exam…. " She slumps. "It's on bifocal solar systems."

This is more familiar territory – and he is oath-bound to render aid to the oppressed. "I take it you don't approve of elliptical orbits?"

Zhoa props her elbow on the table and rests her head between her hands with a morose little sigh. "I don't understand about the major and minor axis and apogees and perigees and things."

Obi-Wan has slain draigons, battled armies of the undead, piloted burning starships and faced down death. He can tackle this problem. "Here." He selects two fat mujas from the adjacent fruit-bowl. "Suppose these are your two suns." He opens his hand, holding the putative stars suspended in mid-air.

Zhoa perks up a bit, smiling at the frivolous use of Force powers. "Yes?"

"Very well, and… _this_ is the innermost planet." A small _quarp-_ berry begins a lazy elliptical orbit about the two foci, bobbing gently in the invisible currents as he holds it aloft along its ordained course.

The padawan's enthusiasm has been rekindled. Playing with food in the dining halls is strictly forbidden – but here she sits, under the protective aegis of a full-ranking Knight, immune from chastisement. The othr initiates are staring openly now.

"Let me do the other planets, Master!" She sets two more round fruits into motion about the twinned centers, their wobbling orbits tracing out wide and lop-sided ovals about his.

"Now, watch," Obi-Wan crisply lectures, pointing with his free hand while the levitating produce illustrates his discourse. "When the satellites are _here,_ approaching the ends of the major axis, the gravitational pull of the two stars acts along a single line of force, accelerating the body through this curve. But _here, _ where the it approaches the minor axis and passes _between _the two stars, their gravitational pulls act at angles to one another – not quite contrary but close enough. SO the planet is caught in a tug of war and slows down… at the point where it skims _closest_ to the two suns. That's why bifocal systems so often have harsh desert climates. Now _this_ little gem," - he sets a wizened _shewacc_ nut into play, chugging along a cock-eyed orbit at the edge of their impromptu system- "is a frigid ice ball most the year, but experiences devastating floods when it slows down on the long side of its revolution. So either way you look at it, two suns are _not_ better than one."

Zhoa is entranced, as is every other small occupant of the room. The clan mistress is standing with lips pressed primly together and hands folded in outward show of disapproval – but her Force signature betrays a certain indulgence toward his hijinks. The improvised orrery is a marvel to behold, an image of harmony in motion.

"Because moderation is preferable to excess," the tiny Nautolan decides.

"Yes… or because there is an imbalance in two having two centers. Worlds that orbit two suns are subject to extreme climates; a heart that orbits two suns is subject to disastrous passions." The insight strikes him just this moment, and he relishes it, watching his own telekinetic artistry with eyes that look far past the fruit into Unifying depths.

He is spared the acquisition of further wisdom by the unheralded arrival of Reeft, who thrusts one long Dressalian arm into the solar system's inner workings and pilfers one of the suns. The rest of the planets fall from their paths in a vexed cataclysm.

"I don't want to sound rude, but are you going to eat this thermonuclear fusion reaction?" The brigand shamelessly bites into the muja, wide lips smirking around its ruddy, smooth surface.

Zhoa smothers her giggle between two hands.

" Private tutoring?" the Dressalian inquires, innocently.

Obi-Wan ignores him. "Pay no heed to Padawan Golodnyy's uncouth antics," he advises his diminutive companion. "Just remember what I showed you."

The girl hops up, pearly eyes gleaming. "Thank you, Master… oh! I have to go now or I'll be late!."

He nods in easy dismissal and watched her scamper away down the aisle in pursuit of her age-mates. Reeft raises both brows at him, meditatively demolishing the muja as he saunters away again, not needing to speak the thought foremost on his mind.

But what does he know? Obi-Wan filches the remaining muja for himself and strides away through the opposite exit, cloak hem softly skirling and 'saber hilt slapping at his thigh.


	7. Chapter 7

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 7**

A day without a visit to the dojo is a day without its requisite share of joy. To entertain a sentiment of this kind is highly unworthy of a Jedi, so Obi-Wan steadfastly abstains from entertaining it as he leads the way down to the open junior level salles that afternoon. Zhoa informs him that her astrocartography exam went very well, and that she is in the custom of practicing 'saber kata with her mentor at this time.

Far be it from him to interrupt the youngling's routine; steady habits are essential to proper child development. Or so he has read, somewhere. Certainly this seems to be Qui-Gon's belief: in all their years together as master and padawan, the senior Jedi made their daily agenda a predictable cycle of mayhem and upheaval of expectations. So, from a certain point of view, he too is a product of steady habits.

Zhoa is happy to be allotted her corner in which to practice open-handed and weapon kata while her companion disports himself among his peers. Garen is not on –planet, nor obviously Feld. There are sundry others present who kindly agree to a match or three, but the pickings are slim until Qui-Gon appears in the doorway.

"Your defensive guard is sloppy today," he comments.

This is only to be expected. Obi-Wan is, after all, practicing left-handed. Ambidexterity is a valuable asset where combat is concerned. As a former devotee of _jar kai_ dueling technique, he is careful not to permit such skills to atrophy for want of use. "Critique from the sidelines is seldom pertinent."

The Jedi master discards his cloak and strides into the center of the sparring arena, chasing away the few others lingering at its margins. Zhoa's attention is riveted by the newcomer; she is strong in the Force, and knows what is coming.

Qui-Gon unclips his saber and adjusts the blade power setting. "Allow me to give you more _direct_ instruction, then."

"Ah." Obi-Wan prowls counterclockwise about his adversary, swinging his own weapon in the flashy salute he deems most irritating to the other man's sensibilities, evoking a dangerous chuckle. "A demonstration of antique customs, then. I do enjoy history lessons."

They fall to with unrestrained enthusiasm, emerald and sapphire blades howling an ecstatic chorus as they whirl and spit lurid fire, weaving a giddying dance to match their song. Qui-Gon is in particularly lively spirits; his usually fluid and powerful variant of Ataru includes a great many _roundhouse_ kicks – and a blow aimed at shoulder height by his scale is closer to a kick in the face by his opponent's. The only way to avoid having his chin split open is to backflip away from the strike; Obi-Wan finds himself in a continuous stream of defensive acrobatics, a carnival show which – he realizes- he has been _tricked_ into performing for Zhoa's benefit.

He opts to end the clown act; seizing Qui-Gon's leg on the next powerful swing, he topples them both. The 'sabers clatter away, signaling the end of the match.

But they have _long ago_ dispensed with tournament rules for private spars. Qui-Gon taught his padawan early how to _survive,_ and this means he taught his padawan early _never_ to stop fighting. Swordsmanship transitions seamlessly into open-hand combat techniques, strike and block, throw and recover, and ultimately grappling .

It is no longer a certainty that Qui-Gon will win every such contest, though he does today.

They rise from the floor grunting a little; generally this sort of practice is undertaken on mats, not the polished wood of this room. Zhoa Pleromata has all but dropped her low-power training weapon and is standing awe-struck in her corner, wide opal eyes fixed upon the unruly spectacle, tiny mouth slightly open.

The tall man's mouth quirks at one corner. "This is your idea of teaching? Sending her to do kata alone in a corner?"

A spurt of defensiveness erupts beneath his ribs. "I spent a good deal of time – "

"That was punitive," Qui-Gon cuts him off. "You are her _teacher_ for the day." He nods in the girl's direction. "Do her the honor."

But … the girl is so tiny and young. What if he _hurts_ her by accident? What if she _cries?_

"You won't hurt her," Qui-Gon assures him. "Did _I_ ever hurt you in training?"

One of Obi-Wan's brows arches sharply upward.

But the older man only wags a finger under his nose. "That was not _on accident,"_ he points out.

Oh. Yes. Well. That is a somewhat legitimate point. His control is far too perfect to inflict unintentional harm, and as for the intentional variety… that is out of the question in this context. Zhoa is not he, nor is she anything like him. Which accounts for some of his hesitance.

Qui-Gon smiles and dips his head in farewell and strides away for the shower rooms.

Feld's padawan is perceptive, and has excellent aural receptors to boot. "So we are going to practice together now?" she eagerly inquires.

"Yes. Join me here in the center."

She obeys with alacrity, skipping over to where he stands waiting and taking up a Niman ready position. Obi-Wan corrects the minor flaws in her stance and mirrors her guard. If he focuses on _saber_ form, and not on the act of teaching, the task becomes facile – almost enjoyable.

He invites her to attack; he will defend. They play for a few minutes, and he gives advice here, a correction there. Encouragement where it is needed, praise where it is merited. Zhoa grows bolder, confidence unfettering hidden skill. She grins, and his own mood rises on the updraft of her youthful happiness.

"Good," he says. "Now – instead of that direct strike on my right, I want you to feint and reverse cut. Can you do that?"

She nods, earnest and determined. He flows in to the next exchange, the steps of their mock duel as familiar as breathing, the simplicity of their dance something ingrained, automatic. He leaves an opening on the right, anticipates her strike, shifts his weight, flicks his blade to intercept her left-hand reverse cut –

And yells in pain.

Zhoa echoes his cry of surprise and drops her saber, crumpling into a full kowtow before him.

Obi-Wan clamps a hand over his burned groin – thank the _Force_ for near misses – and breathes through the initial throbbing assault on his nerves. The injury is superficial, but even a training saber can leave a searing mark. He curses himself for his lack of focus. He had acted on what he assumed she would do – what he had told her to do – rather than tending to the present moment as it _actually _unfolds.

"Oh I'm sorry I'm sorry _- _I did it wrong I meant to reverse but my grip was wobbly and it slipped and-"

Zhoa's babbling apology dissolves into hiccups.

_Oh no. _ Hissing a little, he drops to one knee and touches her shoulder. "There is no need for apology, young one. The mistake was mine."

Now she uncurls from her penitential position and blinks up at him, bewildered. Her mouth turns down at the corners. "You're _hurt,"_ she whimpers. "Oh I can feel it!"

And then she bursts into tears.


	8. Chapter 8

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 8**

A Jedi on mission in the field must often handle emergencies and disasters single-handed, but this does not mean he is trained up to arrogance or immoderate self-reliance. It is simply an exigency of the job. When back-up is available, allies ready to hand, he does not hesitate to call upon them for aid.

And so Obi-Wan promptly seeks expert assistance with his present crisis. He heads straight to the Healers' ward, sniffling padawan in tow. His minor injury will provide sufficient and convincing excuse for his presence there, and if the Force is with him, Bant will be on shift.

The Force is with him.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, not you again," his fierce Mon Cal friend snorts when he presents himself for inspection at the reception desk.

"Saber burn," he explains, tersely, reserving details for the exam room's more private venue.

Her webbed fists are balled upon her hips. "You burned that sweet youngling?"

"She burned _me," _ he whispers, affronted. Sadly, Zhoa's hearing is far more acute than a human's. Her dark eyes gloss with another flood of misery.

Bant squints up at him furiously. "Why is she so upset?" comes the inevitable suspicious inquiry.

"I don't know," he confesses, spreading his hands helplessly. "Bant…please. Will you talk to her? For me?"

The Mon Cal rolls her expressive globular eyes and thrusts a hand in the direction of an adjacent hallway, dismissing him with a single burning look. He is loathe to admit defeat, but in this case surrender has worked in his favor. Zhoa remains in the waiting area with Bant; a quick glance over his shoulder before he turns into the nearest empty cubicle reveals that the apprentice healer is kneeling by the youngling's side, working whatever magic is requisite to staunch her flow of unbecoming emotion.

He flops onto the hard medical couch with a sigh of relief. This whole padawan business is far touchier than he would have predicted – and this is saying something, since his imagination is both agile and fueled by a wide breadth of personal experience. He gingerly rubs at the scorched cloth of his trousers and exhales slowly. He is gaining a new respect for Qui-Gon, if that is possible. The man has survived _three_ padawans. Of course, the first two probably never cried. Feemor is far too mellow in temperament, and Xanatos was a spawn of Darkness, incapable of softer emotion. But _he_… well. That was different. He was young at the time, and Qui-Gon always seemed confident, unruffled and sure-footed. He always knew what to do.

He frowns. It is difficult to remember exactly what that was. But it was effective. He could _ask,_ he supposes, but before he can pursue this line of thought any further, the droid attendant has bumbled in and begun prodding at him, taking his vitals.

"Nature of injury?"

"'Saber burn, upper right leg. Yes it still hurts. No, there was no intrusion or laceration. Ten minutes. No, I haven't put bacta on it. Yes, I can move the limb. No, I don't need a painkiller." He has been here more than once, and knows the standard interrogation routine by rote.

Ben To Li arrives just as the droid finishes entering these details into a cyberchart. "Thank you, MD50, I'll take this one personally."

Obi-Wan props his hands behind his head. "Good afternoon."

"Let'see," the healer muses, brusquely stripping singed cloth away from the burn site. His victim flinches badly, but they both ignore this involuntary betrayal of distress. "Living dangerously again, are we? A bit too close for comfort, I'd say."

"Ha ha. Just patch it up."

Ben To rummages in a supply cabinet. "Master Jinn getting carried away a bit in the dojo? Or was this the result of irresponsible 'saber handling?"

"Neither. It was Feld Spruu's padawan, if you must know."

The healer chuckles , twirling his neatly groomed beard between thumb and forefinger. "And where is the poor child now?"

Obi-Wan waves a vague hand toward the corridor. "Bant is speaking with her."

But the elder Jedi is far too wise to accept this blithe brush off. He sees straight through his patient's airy manner to the heart of the manner. "Oh I _see. _Delegating a responsibility that skirts too close to your own closely guarded insecurities. Effective, if not sophisticated."

Obi-Wan's brows beetle together thunderously. "That's not…. She's _crying,_ for stars' sake!"

"And we can't have that, now can we?"

They finish their business together in fulminating silence. When Ben To sends him on his way, Obi-Wan hesitantly returns to the reception area with its gently burbling fountain and soft illumination. Zhoa appears to have recovered her wits; she is sitting demurely to one side, waiting his return. There is a distinct droop in her posture, but her demeanor falls within the bounds of acceptable self-control.

He sits next to her.

"I'm truly sorry," she murmurs.

"It was an accident, and no permanent damage done."

She glances sideways, shyly, then returns to contemplation of the floor.

"Shall we?" Standing, he invites her to do the same. "Are you hungry?" When he was this age, food was a universal remedy, or at least a universal placebo.

But the petite Nautolan shakes her head."NO, thank you."

He has the distinct Force-borne impression that she dreads seeing her former clanmates in the refectory. This festering grudge or whetever it is remains a mystery, the root of Zhoa's present imbalance. He is tempted to go speak directly to the clanmaster, but it is not technically his place. The girl is not _his_ apprentice, he reminds himself with a small pang of relief. He need only bluff his way through a few more hours and the duty can be handed back to its proper subject.

Spirits lifting, he lengthens his stride. "Come on," he tells his small companion. "We'll go back to quarters."


	9. Chapter 9

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 9**

The remainder of the day passes in peaceful fashion. Zhoa barricades herself behind a pile of holo-texts, diligently completing her assignments, while her interim guardian cleans and polishes his 'saber, his boots, all his field gear, and anything else left lying about in the apartment.

Qui-Gon returns in the late evening to a flawlessly tidy domicile. "Something wrong?" he inquires of his former padawan.

"Of course not." When in Force's name is Feld coming back? Obi-Wan prepares _tea_ using the most elaborate variant of the long ceremony.

The Jedi master watches him with knowing eyes, humor sparkling in the Force around him, and kneels opposite. Zhoa is still fortified against siege at Obi-Wan's desk in the adjacent bedroom.

He accepts his bowl gravely. "Have you made the girl cry yet?" he inquires.

The younger man almost chokes on his first sip. "What?" Outraged stare. "She _started_ out that way. I'm not responsible."

Qui-Gon is not sympathetic. "Exactly. You are responsible – for the time being – and it would appear you have done very little to address the problem."

This is intolerable, as it was doubtlessly calculated to be. "If I had any _idea_ what to do with a …a _crying_ youngling – do _not_ look at me that way, she is a _Jedi_ in training, not some ordinary child –"

The Jedi master holds up a hand. "Are those two things so very mutually exclusive?"

"Yes."

End of debate. Obi-Wan drinks his tea, letting the scalding liquid cascade over his tongue. It is bitter and rich and too_ kriffing hot._ "Blast it." His eyes water up.

Which only provokes a hearty chuckle from his companion. "Alas… I shall have to flee the scene, now that you have committed the most appalling violation of decency."

It is not funny. Obi-Wan blinks away stinging moisture and crosses his arms. "What am I supposed to do?" he demands.

"You are asking for my counsel?"

Humiliating, but true. He is out of his depth and he knows it. "Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon gazes languidly at the ceiling. "Put yourself in her boots, then. What does she need?"

He may be a talented diplomat, according to reputation and the record of precocious achievement, but this is different. "I don't know what to _say _ to her," he insists.

The tall man shakes his head. "You've been talking to her all day."

"Yes, but not about this. " He searches his memory long and hard, trying to dredge up some scrap of personal history that will give some clue as to proper masterly comportment in this situation, and comes up alarmingly blank. "I can't even remember what you used to say to me."

Raised brows. "And why is that?"

It has been a long time since Obi-Wan found himself in the position of stymied and slow-witted pupil. It is not sitting well with him now, but he must accept the temporary resumption of previous roles. He still has much to learn, and it shows. He sighs. "Because I wasn't paying attention?"

Now Qui-Gon is laughing outright. "No, brat, because I wasn't talking. I was _listening."_

Oh. Obi-Wan shifts in place. Fine, then.

Zhoa Pleromata appears in the inner doorway's threshold, attracted by the melodious chiming of Qui-Gon's laughter. "Masters?"

"Padawan," the Jedi master orders, and it is unclear which of them he means to address. "Go sit on the settee."

They both obey, sheepishly enough.

"I can see neither of you has eaten – I'll fetch something up." The tall man heads for the door, pausing long enough to point an admonitory finger at the pair of them. "Stay there," he warns, imperiously. "Stay."

The door hisses shut behind him.

"Zhoa," Obi-Wan tentatively begins, "You are upset with the other younglings – from your clan."

To his horror she not only bursts into tears again, she also flings herself into his arms, burying her face against his shoulder.

There is absolutely no subclause in the Precepts governing this situation; instinct prompts him to wrap both arms about her quivering form. She is lithe, a twist of bone and muscle, mottled green skin with an oceanic tang reminiscent of Bant. And she is weeping in earnest, a soft but steady lamentation that digs deep beneath all his armor and burrows into compassionate depths, training be damned.

"Oh," the girl sobs, "I used to live with all my friends and we were always together and we talked and played and studied and slept in the same room and now I'm all on my own I'm a padawan and I never see them anymore and I don't know if they still like me or if we are friends how can we be and I yelled at Ti-Lo and I don't know why but it's so hard to see them eating and going to their quarters and talking and I'm not part of that anymore and they are and, and and I _miss_ them!"

Jedi initiates are not raised to be sentimental, but this is the dirty secret of the apprenticeship system: the young padawan is torn away from its familiar nurturing environment and thrust into a world of duty and discipline so intense that any sane being would crack beneath its pressure without an extraordinary support. Thus the master-padawan bond is catalyzed and sealed in fire, and sometimes tears. Such vital connection and dependency is _necessary_ if any of them are to reach their full potential. Jedi training is _hard - _ unnatural, some might say. It requires the breaking and re-forging of hearts, many times over.

He is a bit choked up himself, a result of carelessly lowered mental shields. But Zhoa seems to require no further counsel than his embrace; having poured out her grief, she subsides into a less tempestuous fit of weeping, her body going limp against him in cathartic relief.

Apparently she simply needed to _tell_ someone. And he realizes that he has now a double armful of helplessly weeping youngling, just as he dreaded.

But it is not so bad.


	10. Chapter 10

**By Proxy**

* * *

**Scene 10**

Qui-Gon returns an hour later, empty-handed.

"Well, that was good," his former protégé grouses, noting that the promise of fetching dinner was a mere pretext for convenient absence.

The Jedi master, for his part, notes that Zhoa Pleromata is peacefully slumbering, her small body draped over Obi-Wan's chest, her head rising and falling with the gentle rhythm of his breath. It is a tender vignette, a fact he will not mention aloud. "You've restored harmony to the universe. Good."

He takes up position at the other end of the worn couch, propping his feet upon the scuffed table.

"It was a touch and go operation, but we've pulled through."

The tall man smiles. "You are a natural."

"I don't think so, Master."

Qui-Gon lets his head fall back, and folds his hands atop his own chest. "Really? Why not?"

Their quarters are lit only by the small lamp in the kitchen nook, and the automatic footlights along the molding by the door and balcony threshold. In the twilight calm, every difficulty appears soft-edged, its contours muted by time and experience. Obi-Wan tilts his head to one side. "Younglings are not my specialty," he declares. "Yes, I know they like me – and I like them. I enjoy the initiate classes and such. But that's not the same as a padawan."

"Really?"

"NO, its' not – or rather, a padawan is not like other younglings. A master is responsible for his apprentice, in every way, Think about it: another Force-user, in need of guidance on the path at every step, every turn. The way is narrow and treacherous. One misstep and the fall into darkness is steep, irrevocable. Youth is brash and given to poor judgment. Danger abounds. Mistakes appear as wisdom, folly as a tempting siren. You can never relax your vigilance, but in the final reckoning you cannot _force_ obedience, either. Your heart is held hostage to another's will, another's choice. "

"The thought may have crossed my mind," Qui-Gon dryly interposes, but Obi-Wan needs to _talk._

"What if you fail? What is, for all your devotion and effort, this youngling falls from the way? Then it is your fault; you have failed him, in one way or another, or in many. You had to be _perfect_ to pull this off without a disaster, and no being is perfect. You've trained someone in the ways of the Force – granted them power and insight, but not _enough._ Now he's a monster, wreaking havoc. You have to live with that. You can't revoke the past or correct your errors." He swallows, eyes glinting in apology, but Qui-Gon merely nods. Jedi do not indulge in sentiment, nor spare their own aching bruises and scars the pressure of scrutiny. And Xanatos is long in the past.

"How do you live with that? I don't know. I can't even live with the _possibility."_

Qui-Gon merely grunts. "Hm."

"I know what you would say, Master. The future is always in motion; focus in the present moment. One battle at a time, one step at a time. To leave potential untrained is worse than to try and fail. Fear of failure is itself a path to the Dark side; doubt is a self-fulfilling prophecy. I just… I have dreams. Sometimes. I suppose I should meditate on their meaning and release them. It's foolish to dwell on the possible, and more foolish to allow it to erode one's present. Fear is a weaver of illusion; it can even transform a harmless youngling into something _dangerous._ " Unconsciously, he tightens his hold on Zhoa, who stirs comfortably and makes a small snuffling noise in his tabards.

Qui-Gon smiles ruefully. "Indeed."

"Without risk there would be no loss. But there would be nothing else, either," Obi-Wan concludes,

"You grow in wisdom, my friend." It is true; he does, with every passing day.

"I still don't want a padawan. Not yet, anyway," the younger man qualifies, scowling at the shadow-textured ceiling.

"Hm."

They contemplate the problem in silence for a long stretch of minutes. Outside, the glittering lights of Coruscant's night traffic weave an endless web of arrivals and departures, a pageant's string of actors crossing the vast stage of fate. When Qui-Gon looks at his comrade again, the young man is sound asleep, anxiety bleeding away in the Force's soothing currents.

It is helpful sometimes merely to _tell_ someone. He covers the pair of sleepers with a blanket and folds himself onto a cushion to meditate.

* * *

Feld Spruu returns not long thereafter; the door opens before he can activate the chime.

Qui-Gon Jinn summons him inside the hushed apartment with a quiet gesture. And there, upon the sagging couch, Zhoa reposes in perfect contentment upon her living and equally somnolent pillow. The Twi"Lek Knight flashes his brilliant white smile. "You were right, Master – Obi-Wan is _perfect."_

The tall Jedi's eyes crinkle at the corners. "He'll want to exact his pound of flesh in the dojo, I imagine. I shouldn't be too smug if I were you."

Feld shrugs mischievously. "We'll see about that."

The sleepers stir; each master brushes fingers across his learner's brow, gently pushing him or her back into tranquil slumber; Feld scoops up Zhoa's inert form and hefts her in both strong arms.

"I should get this bundle of trouble back to her own bed," he says, bowing his extravagantly decorated head in respect.

Qui-Gon sees him out. "May the Force be with you."

It has been an eventful day; with one final wistful smile at the fleeting exchange of places, the assumption of duties and roles not _yet_ their own, he retires to his own room and surrenders himself to the restorative oblivion of sleep. The future will bring what it will – but he, for one, is confident that his former padawan will be _perfect._

**The End**


End file.
